A Very Chelsie Christmas
by chelsie fan
Summary: A series of one-shots inspired by an alphabetical list of Christmas-related prompts. Some chapters might have S5 spoilers, and I will indicate that in the A/N.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N This is the first in a series of stand-alone ficlets/drabbles/stories/poems(?) that I hope to post throughout the month of December. This collection was inspired by an alphabetical list of Christmas prompts that struck my fancy. I hope they strike yours, too. If you'd like to see the entire list, please check my tumblr page.**

A – Advent

_December, 1920_

With Christmas approaching, the staff began decorating the house. Mrs. Hughes directed and supervised the preparations. Mr. Carson walked about, nodding his approval and occasionally giving instructions. Upstairs, elaborate swags of greenery were draped over the fireplace mantelpieces in the main rooms, about the archways between the rooms, on the railings along the balcony, and around the banisters on the stairs. Wreaths were mounted on doors and above fireplaces. Mistletoe was suspended in doorways. Floral arrangements were displayed on nearly every flat surface. Candles were placed everywhere. Figurines and other trinkets were situated on tables, shelves, and mantelpieces throughout the house. Only the tree was not yet put in place.

Downstairs, the decorations were more modest, but no less festive. There were evergreen boughs in the servants' hall, some very pretty winter flowers in the kitchen, a wreath on the back door, baubles here and there, and a lovely holly-and-ivy centerpiece in the middle of the servants' table. The small tree for the servants would come later.

When everything was complete, Mrs. Hughes praised the staff's efforts. She sent her maids off to perform other duties and turned the footmen and hall boys back over to Mr. Carson's direction. Then she sequestered herself in her sitting room, where she set out a few of her own trinkets, some candles, a vase of flowers, and a few small sprigs of holly and ivy. Satisfied with her efforts, she sat down at her desk to look over some papers. Before long, she heard a clatter and a commotion in the corridor. Leaving her sitting room to investigate, she found Alfred and James hanging mistletoe in the downstairs doorways. Alfred needed no additional height to reach the tops of the doorways, but James was being very noisy with the wooden crate he was using as a step-stool, and apparently, that was what had attracted Mrs. Hughes's attention.

"James … Alfred … Just what do you think you're doing? You know that Mr. Carson will not approve of such nonsense. He doesn't allow mistletoe downstairs. It gives you young ones ideas, he says."

"But Mrs. Hughes – " began Alfred.

"No 'buts,' Alfred. Take it all down at once," she commanded, interrupting him. "I'll not have Mr. Carson huffing and bellowing when he sees it."

"But Mrs. Hughes – " tried James with no more success than his counterpart. He was cut off just as summarily.

"I'll have no cheek from the two of you! Now, do as I say, and then go about your business. Quickly, now! If you know what's good for you, you'll not let Mr. Carson catch you out." And she returned to her sitting room, expecting her orders to be obeyed.

Ten minutes later, as she reviewed some kitchen invoices, Mr. Carson knocked on her door and entered.

"Mrs. Hughes, will you kindly explain to me why you object to a little bit of mistletoe? What do you mean by ordering my footmen to remove it from all the doorways?" Mr. Carson demanded with feigned sternness.

"_What?_ Why _I_ object to mistletoe? Are you in earnest? Mr. Carson, during the entire time I've been here, you've _never_ allowed such a thing downstairs!" Mrs. Hughes was at as loss.

"Nevertheless, I've asked the lads to hang some this year. I don't see the danger in a bit of harmless fun."

"_Harmless fun_? Are you _joking_?" cried Mrs. Hughes. "With two lovesick young lads like Alfred and James chasing poor Ivy and Daisy? Not to mention the rest of the lot! Hall boys and housemaids … That's just asking for trouble. You know you'll regret it."

"We shall see. We shall see … Can we agree, at least, to a trial period? Perhaps we can leave it up for today, and see what happens? At the first sign of mischief, I'll have it removed."

Mrs. Hughes could only shake her head in wonder. "Very well, Mr. Carson," she conceded. "But on your own head be it!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I think you might be surprised." And he strode from the room, leaving Mrs. Hughes thoroughly perplexed.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Mr. Carson was correct. Throughout the first day, the downstairs mistletoe caused little enough disruption. Aside from Mr. Bates and Anna stealing a quick kiss underneath the sprig in the servants' hall doorway, the pervasive plant bore no other romantic fruit. Most of the maids were wise enough and cautious enough not to be caught standing in the doorways by randy footmen and hall boys, and the few footmen and hall boys who _did_ catch the maids were wise enough and cautious enough to claim no more than an innocent peck on the cheek.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

That night, as Mrs. Hughes sat at the little table in her sitting room, talking with Mr. Carson and sipping her nightcap, she admitted, "It seems you were right, Mr. Carson. The mistletoe has done no real harm yet."

"Of course not. I don't know what your objection has been all these years," he teased.

"Nor do I, Mr. Carson," she played along. "I suppose I've been wrong the whole while."

"Indeed you have. Let the youngsters have their fun. As a matter of fact … I have a sprig right here," he said, shifting in his chair and pulling a small cutting from his waistcoat pocket. "I thought I might hang it in here for you, if you feel so inclined."

"Really, Mr. Carson," she said dismissively. "I'm far too old for such frivolity."

"Nonsense. Please, Mrs. Hughes. Allow me. I'll put it someplace inconspicuous. It will be our secret," he pleaded.

"Oh, all right," she capitulated, wondering what on earth he could possibly mean by all this.

He stood and made a show of looking about the room, though she suspected he already knew where he wanted to hang it. "Ah," he said, finally bringing his gaze to rest in a spot right above where she was sitting. He stood over her, and using a piece of string he'd brought with him, he affixed the small clipping to the light fixture protruding from the wall above her head.

"There," he declared when he'd arranged it satisfactorily. "No one else will even know it's there." What he said was true. It couldn't really be seen from the doorway, and the only time she ever sat in that chair beneath it was in the evening – with him.

He remained standing there, seemingly waiting for something, and she felt bold enough to ask, somewhat breathlessly, "It seems you've caught me under the mistletoe. Do you intend to claim a kiss?"

"Only if you're agreeable. I don't want to make you uncomfortable," he answered.

"It would be unusual … but not unpleasant, I think," she told him.

Having been granted permission, he bent down, grasped her hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it sweetly. Then he smiled down at her, still holding her hand. "I hope you didn't find that too disagreeable, Mrs. Hughes."

"No, Mr. Carson. Not at all." She smiled back up at him.

"Good. I think I'll say good night now. I'll see you in the morning." He released her hand slowly, sliding his fingers softly over hers.

"Good night," replied Mrs. Hughes dreamily, as Mr. Carson gathered the glasses and decanter and took his leave.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

For the next several days, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes did not meet under any mistletoe during the day. It would have been difficult to say whether it was simply coincidence or they were careful to avoid the sprigs that were hung in the common doorways, but the reason was unimportant, because they found themselves under their own, secret mistletoe in the evenings. Every night, after their ritual chat, Mrs. Hughes allowed Mr. Carson to claim his good night kiss, and the kisses followed a gradual but definite progression.

The second night, he kissed her hand again, but this time, he opened her hand, placed a tender kiss to her palm, and closed her fingers over it, as if giving her something precious to keep. On the third night, he kissed her knuckles, then turned her hand over kissed the place where her palm met her wrist. By the fourth night, he'd grown brave enough to draw her up from her seat and kiss her cheek, far back, near her ear. On subsequent nights, his kisses ventured incrementally closer to her mouth.

They never spoke of these kisses; they simply indulged in them. Even though Mr. Carson had revealed nothing of his intentions in words, his actions spoke volumes. Mrs. Hughes could tell that he was building towards something. She was unsure exactly what that _something_ was, but with the calendar rapidly advancing on Christmas and his lips gradually advancing on hers, she was certain she would find out before long.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

On Christmas Eve, Mrs. Hughes made it through the day on nervous energy alone. The previous night, Mr. Carson's kiss had fallen so close to her mouth that she could almost taste it. The tension was thrilling, tantalizing, and maddening, all at once. She'd slept only fitfully, her waking thoughts of Mr. Carson's chaste kisses warring with her sleeping dreams of more passionate embraces. Between the family's festivities and the staff's simple but meaningful observances, the day was full of activity. By evening, when the family were all sorted and the staff were finally shooed off to bed, she was exhausted but also very excited.

It was quite late when Mrs. Hughes finally assumed her usual position, seated beneath the mistletoe in her sitting room, and Mr. Carson assumed his, at the other side of the table. While they cheerfully recalled the day's events and spoke of the next day's planned activities, they drank a special bottle of wine that Mr. Carson had saved for the occasion.

When they could no longer choose to ignore their mutual fatigue, Mr. Carson rose from his chair and said, "I think it's time we should say good night." He pulled Mrs. Hughes gently from her chair to stand before him.

"Yes, I suppose we should," she agreed.

As he held her hands, he leaned towards her and lowered his head to hers. She closed her eyes. As his lips neared her cheek, he paused briefly, and she could feel his breath tickling her skin. Her own breath she held, for fear of making unladylike noises if she were to release it. Then, at last, his lips touched her face, coming to rest partially on her cheek but also covering a portion of her mouth, where they remained for a delightful moment. When he withdrew, she opened her eyes to find him smiling down at her.

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes," he said and kissed both her hands before letting go.

"Good night, Mr. Carson," she replied weakly.

Mr. Carson collected their empty glasses and the decanter and turned to leave. Just as he reached her door, the little clock on her shelf chimed midnight. He looked over his shoulder to face her again.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hughes," he offered as he left.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson," she returned.

Mrs. Hughes began to put her room in order for the night, a whirlwind of thoughts racing through her mind and a flood of emotions welling up in her heart. She very nearly jumped off the ground when she turned from her desk to find that Mr. Carson had reappeared in her room.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you," he apologized. "Only I have something for you. I wanted to give it to you tomorrow – or rather, _later today_, that is – but I find can't wait another moment. And since it _is_ already Christmas now … "

"All right." It was all she could think to say, and her voice would hardly cooperate.

"Will you sit back down with me, please?"

She nodded, and he took her by the hand, led her to her usual seat, and then occupied his own chair, still holding her hand across the table.

"Mrs. Hughes," he began, looking into her eyes very seriously, "before I give you this gift, there's something you should know. You see, all this mistletoe and kissing … The young ones think nothing of it. They see it as a harmless bit of fun and attach no special meaning to it. A young lad will jump at the chance to kiss any pretty girl who comes his way, even if he doesn't know her name; and the girl most likely will welcome his attentions, even if she's just met him. But I have a different view.

"Kisses are not to be offered and accepted so freely. A kiss should be an outward expression of something much deeper. I don't believe a man should kiss a woman unless his intentions towards her are both honorable and serious. I would never dream of kissing a woman unless I intend to devote myself to her fully. But I _do_ dream of kissing _you_, and you should know that my feelings run deep and true, and my intentions are noble.

"I could say, 'I love you,' and it would be true. But 'I love you' hardly begins to describe what I feel for you: my panic when you're late returning from the village or when you're ill; my pain when you're upset or troubled; my joy when I see your smile or hear your laughter; my contentment at just having you near. You see, the word 'love' is inadequate, but I don't know a better one."

The whole time he spoke, Mrs. Hughes dared not move, breathe, look away, or even blink. Now that Mr. Carson had paused, she was able to speak, albeit feebly.

"I love you, too, Mr. Carson. Truly, I do. But more than that, I admire you, I respect you, I adore you, and I … desire you. I don't know how to put it into words, either, but you should know that this sentiment which neither of us can describe fully … I feel it, too – just as keenly."

"I can't tell you how happy it makes me to hear you say that."

"Likely, just as happy as it makes me to say it."

"Then allow me to continue. When a man … _loves_ a woman … or … regards her as I do you … there is only one proper course of action." He lowered himself on one knee and drew from his waistcoat pocket a simple gold band. "Mrs. Hughes, will you allow me to love you, comfort you, honor you, and cherish you – to spend the rest of my days by your side?"

"Oh, Mr. Carson! Yes!" she cried, sniffling and weeping.

He slipped the ring onto her finger, rose, and drew her up with him. As they stood beaming at each other, he remarked, "Now that we understand each other, I hope my bride-to-be will allow me to give her a proper kiss."

"Your bride-to-be would like that very much," she assured him, laughing joyously.

"Happy Christmas, Elsie," he whispered as he lowered his lips to hers.

"Happy Christmas, Charles," she murmured just before their lips met.

And a very happy Christmas it was.

**A/N Originally, I had hoped to post a longer, multi-chapter, modern AU this month, but real life has happened, and now I don't think I'll have the time or mental energy to devote to it. Since a series of one-shots is less daunting, this happened instead. I hope you enjoy. Please leave a review if you can spare the time for a few words. Thank you.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Thanks to all of you who read and reviewed the last chapter, who favorited and followed this story, and who liked and reblogged my post on tumblr. I'm always grateful for your support. Here's the next chapter – a little Christmas baking. Very minor S5 spoiler.**

B – Baking

_December, 1931_

"Do you think that's enough chocolate?" asked Elsie after Beryl had dumped the broken pieces into the batter.

"Heavens, yes!" Beryl answered. "The chocolate is meant to be an enhancement, not the main ingredient. We want them to be sweet – but not _nauseating_!"

"As you say, Beryl," replied Elsie, duly chastised. "You know best, of course."

"And you'd do well to remember that!" Beryl shot back cheekily but with no ill intent.

The two were doing some Christmas baking in the large, well-equipped kitchen at the Mason farm. It had been their tradition for several years – now that they were two, happily married, contentedly retired, independent ladies – to do their Christmas baking together.

The first year, Beryl had not yet married William Mason, Senior, and the two friends had done their baking at the Carsons' cottage; but it had been too much for Charles to endure. The poor man had hovered all day, watching from the parlor while pretending to read his newspaper and listen to the wireless. He'd conceived every possible excuse to go into or through the small kitchen, asking unwelcome questions, giving unsolicited advice, and generally causing unnecessary interference, until finally they'd sent him on a contrived errand into the village. The women, in fact, had had plenty of sugar and flour, but Charles had not needed to know that. He'd dutifully bundled himself up and trudged into the village to acquire their supplies, fearing that if he didn't, he would have fewer sweets to enjoy.

The next year, after Beryl had married Bill Mason and moved to his farm, it had been decided that the Mason kitchen was a far better location for their annual endeavor. Not only was the space better apportioned, better stocked, and better equipped, but also, Bill, having been married before, was prudent enough to know that it was in his best interest to give the two bakers a wide berth. And every year since then, the week before Christmas, the friends had done their baking together in Beryl's kitchen.

This year, the women were trying a special recipe. The Carsons were expecting a visit the next day from Lady Mary and Master George. Beryl had learned from Daisy (who was now addressed as _Mrs. Mason_, in keeping with the dignity of her position as cook at the Abbey), that these new "Toll House Cookies*" were Master George's favorite. He'd acquired a taste for them while visiting Miss Sybbie and Mr. Branson in Boston and had begged Daisy to obtain the recipe and bake some for him. At ten years old, Master George was sweet and sincere, but he also was well aware of his charm. He knew that if he put forth any reasonable request with a modicum of earnestness, no one would refuse him anything. And so Daisy had written to Ivy, who had then sent her a newspaper clipping with the popular recipe. Daisy had made the cookies for Master George, and he'd declared them "delicious."

Now, Beryl and Elsie were baking a batch so that Elsie could have the lad's favorites on hand when he came to visit the Carsons with his mother. Elsie had become rather partial to the boy; he was growing into a fine young man who reminded everyone of his late father.

"There! That should do it," pronounced Beryl as they mixed in the list bits of chocolate. "Now we'll need to drop little clumps of batter onto the baking tin."

The friends worked together, shaping the rounded little mounds of dough with spoons and their fingers.

"What have you got Charles for Christmas this year?" asked Beryl.

"A new cricket bat," Elsie told her. "He and His Lordship are teaching Master George to play. The lad's a natural, he says. And what have you got for Bill?"

"I've ordered him a new suit from the tailor. He likes to look smart when we visit Daisy at the house."

"That's very thoughtful. I'm sure he'll love it."

Elsie and Beryl continued to chat lightheartedly about this and that while they finished arranging the dough and then while the cookies baked. When the cookies were done and cooled, they each tasted one.

"Hmmm … What do you think, Beryl?" Elsie wanted to know.

"Not bad, for something from America. I can see why the lad likes them. What do _you_ say, Elsie?"

"Well, I'm still partial to shortbread, but these are quite tasty, I must say."

A little while later, Elsie packed up a tin with cookies to take home with her, leaving some for Beryl and Bill. Elsie thanked Beryl and went on her way.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The next afternoon, Lady Mary and Master George sat at the kitchen table in the Carsons' cottage, visiting with their favorite retired couple. Master George had been given a tall glass of milk and a large helping of his favorite cookies. His mother admonished him to slow down and not to try to speak with his mouth full, but Elsie was secretly thrilled to see the boy devour the treats so eagerly. When he'd finished all the cookies that were on his plate, Elsie offered him more, pending Lady Mary's approval. He gave his mother a pleading look, but to no avail.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Carson," said Lady Mary. "He's had quite enough. They're scrumptious, but he'll spoil his dinner. And Mrs. Mason is making his favorite clam chowder tonight." She looked pointedly at her son.

To the young man's credit, though he was obviously disappointed, he answered simply, "Yes, Mama."

"Very well, My Lady," Elsie said politely to the younger woman. Then she turned to Charles and suggested, "Dear, why don't you take Lady Mary in the parlor and show her your new book about Buckingham Palace? Master George and I will be along in a moment. I'd like to ask him all about Miss Sybbie and about what he saw and did in America."

Charles eyed Elsie suspiciously for just an instant before suggesting to his guest, "My Lady, I've a new book about the royal palace. I wonder if you might take a look and tell me if the photographs do it justice. I've seen it from the outside, of course, from a distance, but I'm sure you could tell me a great deal more about the pictures of the rooms inside. Would you be so kind?"

"Certainly," replied Lady Mary. And with that, she and Charles retired to the parlor, leaving Elsie and Master George in the kitchen with the tin of cookies.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Later, after Lady Mary and Master George had taken their leave, Elsie and Charles went back to the kitchen to finish the clearing and washing up. Charles spotted the open cookie tin on the table.

"Elsie," he began, "I'm quite sure that there were precisely eighteen biscuits in that tin when I left this room with Lady Mary. I see only fourteen now."

"They're _cookies_, Charles, and do you mean to tell me that you _counted_ them?"

"Of course I did! And do you mean to tell me that _you didn't_? How many years did we spend keeping careful inventories of everything at the house? I _know_ when something disappears. You gave the lad more ... _cookies ..._ after his mother expressly forbade it!" he accused.

"Perhaps _I_ ate them," she rejoined.

Charles took hold of his wife, pulled her to him, and kissed her thoroughly. "You don't taste like chocolate," he observed, still holding her close.

"All right, you win," she conceded. "I let him eat two more."

"Just two? Last I checked, fourteen from eighteen leaves four, my dear."

"Yes, well, the other two are wrapped up in his pocket for after dinner."

"Elsie Carson, the next time you presume to scold me for favoring an 'uppity minx,' I shall remind you how you've spoilt her son!"

Elsie didn't appreciate being teased about her fondness for the boy and sought to silence her husband immediately. She reached behind her, plucked a cookie from the tin, playfully stuffed it into his mouth, and promptly kissed him. With his mouth full of delectable cookie and his arms full of amorous Elsie, Charles was rendered mute: mute … but very, _very_ content.

**A/N Historical/culinary note: "Toll House® Crunch Cookies" were created by Ruth Wakefield at her Toll House Inn in Massachusetts in 1930 when she added broken bits of chocolate to her cookie dough. The recipe became very popular locally and was soon printed in a Boston newspaper. The cookies' fame spread, and she later struck a deal with the Nestlé® company, which began selling pre-chopped bits of chocolate in convenient packages; the company provided her with a lifetime's supply of chocolate, and her recipe was printed on every package of chocolate chips sold.**

**Personal note: chocolate chip cookies are my absolute FAVORITE, and I have the world's best recipe. It's similar to the original Toll House® recipe, with a few significant differences. Send me a message if you want the recipe, and I'll fix you up with it!**

**Also, please leave a review if you can spare a moment. Thanks!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Thank you once again for all the support so far. Your encouragement really makes this fun for me. I wouldn't enjoy writing this half as much if it weren't for the interaction with you wonderful readers. Please keep letting me know what you think.**

**You'll notice three things:**

**1\. I'm a day behind with my letter prompts. I apologize. I hope to catch up.**

**2\. I've slightly revised my alphabetical list, so three of my prompts, including C, don't match up with those you might be reading from olehistorian and QuietlyFlailing.**

**3\. This chapter isn't a one-shot. It will be continued with tomorrow's D.**

C – Cozy Fire

_Christmas Eve, 1924_

"Have you seen Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Hughes asked Mr. Molesley when she couldn't find the butler in his pantry or anywhere else.

"Oh, he's just gone into the village. He said he hopes not to be too long, but he needs to fetch something very important," answered the footman.

"Well, it must be very urgent indeed if he's gone out so late on Christmas Eve. And in this weather!" She shook her head and shivered to think of poor Mr. Carson out in the cold.

"He hopes to be back in time for dinner, but if he's delayed, we're to go on and serve dinner without him," elaborated Mr. Molesley.

"That's very strange." Mrs. Hughes's eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. "It's not like Mr. Carson to miss dinner on Christmas Eve. I can't imagine what's so critical ... Oh, very well. Thank you, Mr. Molesley. I won't keep you from your work. Carry on."

But as afternoon turned into evening and darkness fell, the weather worsened, and Mrs. Hughes began to worry. What could Mr. Carson possibly be doing? Everything in the village would be closed by now, and it was pitch dark, freezing cold, and alarmingly late.

Mrs. Hughes tried to distract herself with work, in order to keep her mind from worrying over Mr. Carson, but she was unsuccessful. The wind had picked up, and it had begun to snow heavily. She hoped he'd had the foresight to take an electric torch with him. Even if he had, though, it wouldn't do him much good in the blinding snow. Images of Mr. Carson lying frozen in a ditch, injured and helpless, lost and alone, flashed through her mind. Before long, she'd worked herself into a real state.

When Mr. Barrow rang the dressing gong, she could stand it no longer; she decided to send Mr. Molesley out to look for Mr. Carson. The staff could ill afford to be missing both the butler _and_ a footman at Christmas Eve dinner, with the Dowager and Mrs. Crawley in attendance, but it couldn't be helped. Mr. Carson's safety was more important. Mr. Barrow could make some excuse so as not to alarm the family.

Fortunately, however, an excuse was not necessary. Just as Mrs. Hughes was about to send poor Mr. Molesley out into the storm with an unfortunate hall boy, the back door blew open with a bang, and in stumbled a very distressed Mr. Carson. He pushed the door closed, slumped against it, and dropped his hand torch with a loud, clattering sound.

"Mr. Carson!" cried Mrs. Hughes. "Oh, thank God!"

Such was her relief at seeing him that she rushed to him and almost threw her arms around his neck. She stopped herself just in time and placed her hands instead on his upper arms and shoulders.

"What in Heaven's name ... ? Come inside. I've got a nice fire going in your pantry," she told him. Then she turned to Mr. Molesley. "Mr. Molesley, will you please help me get Mr. Carson to his pantry before he collapses?"

Mr. Molesley obliged and held one of Mr. Carson's arms while Mrs. Hughes held the other. Between the two, they managed to walk the hunched-over, shivering butler down the corridor to his pantry while Mrs. Hughes instructed a hall boy to put away the torch and to clean up the snow that Mr. Carson had tracked in.

Once Mr. Carson was safely in front of the fire, Mrs. Hughes took a good look at him. He was shaking uncontrollably, and his teeth were chattering noisily. His eyebrows and eyelashes were coated with tiny ice crystals. His lips were blue, and his nose and ears were bright red. The rest of his face was frighteningly pale.

"Look at you! You're frozen half to death!" she exclaimed. "Let's get you out of these wet things."

Then turning to Mr. Molesley, she rattled off a list of instructions. "First, ask Mrs. Patmore or Daisy to bring some tea – with a generous helping of brandy. Then, ask Mr. Barrow and Andy to manage the family's dinner. After that, go upstairs and run a warm bath for Mr. Carson. When you've done, come back to help him up the stairs."

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes." Mr. Molesley nodded in acknowledgment and hurried off to carry out her orders.

As Mr. Carson stood helpless, Mrs. Hughes started to remove his outer garments, laying them over a nearby chair. He was unable to speak or move, aside from the shivering.

"You poor dear," she said sympathetically. "You frightened the life out of me, you know." Her voice choked around the lump in her throat.

First, she removed his hat and took the liberty of placing her hands over his cheeks and ears. She gasped at how cold he felt. "You're cold as ice!" she remarked.

Mrs. Hughes rubbed his face for a few seconds in a futile attempt to warm it. Then she moved on to his scarf and slipped it from his neck, brushing her fingers across the skin there. At least his neck felt a little warmer than his face and ears. Pulling off his gloves, she noted that his hands were positively frigid. She took them in her own and tried, again unsuccessfully, to generate some warmth. Finally, she unbuttoned his coat and slid it off his shoulders. Running her hands over his upper arms, she determined that his morning coat was wet, too. "And you're soaked through!" she observed.

If she'd stopped for a moment to think about what she was doing, she might have been uncomfortable or embarrassed. She was "undressing" Mr. Carson and touching him intimately, but it never occurred to her _not_ to do it. His outer garments were wet and still had snow clinging to them – in fact, _frozen_ to them in spots. They had to come off, and he couldn't do it himself, so there was nothing for it. Under different circumstances, she might have enjoyed the familiarity, but at that moment, she was just grateful he was alive and safe.

Just then, Mrs. Patmore appeared with the requested tea and a quilt.

"Merciful Heavens! You're a sight!" she proclaimed, taking in Mr. Carson's condition.

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore," said Mrs. Hughes. She took the tea from the cook and set it on Mr. Carson's small table.

"Here. I've brought the quilt from your sitting room." Mrs. Patmore handed the blanket to Mrs. Hughes, who draped it over Mr. Carson's shoulders. "I've got to get back to the kitchen. We're about to serve. Are you sure he'll be all right?"

"I think so, Mrs. Patmore … as soon as we get him warmed up. Thank you. Go on back. You're needed in the kitchen. I'll call you if we need something."

Mr. Carson gave a weak smile and a nod. The cook nodded in response and left the butler in the capable hands of the housekeeper.

Mrs. Hughes picked up the tea cup and turned to Mr. Carson. "Here. Now sit down and drink this." With one hand she held the cup, and with the other, she guided him to a chair near the fire. It was clear that Mr. Carson couldn't hold the cup on his own; his hands were shaking, and he couldn't move his fingers. So she leaned over and held the cup to his lips, and he sipped gingerly. When a few drips dribbled out through his still-chattering teeth and numb lips, she fished around in his breast pocket to find his handkerchief and wiped his chin. Then she moved his wet clothes aside and sat in the chair next to him. She arranged the blanket more snugly around him and continued to give him sips of tea until he stopped shaking, his coloring looked more normal, and he was able to croak out a few words.

After a few minutes, Mr. Molesley arrived to announce that dinner was underway and running smoothly and that a hot bath was ready and waiting for Mr. Carson.

"Thank you, Mr. Molesley," said the housekeeper, rising from her chair and helping Mr. Carson to his feet. "Will you please help Mr. Carson upstairs? Once he's settled, you can come back down and help serve the pudding and drinks."

"Certainly, Mrs. Hughes. Come with me, Mr. Carson. We'll get you sorted," Mr. Molesley offered kindly.

"Thank you, but I'm fine," Mr. Carson declared. "I can manage the stairs. I'm grateful for your help, Mr. Molesley, but you should go and help with dinner."

"Well, if – if you're sure," stammered Mr. Molseley doubtfully.

"I _am_ sure. I'm much better now," the butler insisted.

"Mr. Carson, I don't think that's a good idea," said Mrs. Hughes.

"I'll be perfectly fine. I'm simply _cold_, not ill or injured."

Mr. Molesley looked back and forth between the two heads of staff, wondering whom to obey.

Finally, Mrs. Hughes shook her head and gave an exasperated sigh. "All right, Mr. Molesley. Go on, then. Help with dinner. Thank you for your assistance." And with that, Mr. Molesley was dismissed.

"Come on, Mr. Carson," said Mrs. Hughes. "You should hurry upstairs before your water turns cold. But when you're done, you should come right back down. It's warmer here than in your room. I'll keep the fire going."

Mr. Carson looked fondly at her as he let the quilt drop to his chair. "Thank you for all your help. You've taken very good care of me."

"Well, I'm just relieved that you're safe. You gave me a fright. What on Earth were you doing out in this weather? What could possibly be so important that you risked your life?" she demanded.

"Oh, I hardly think my _life_ was danger!"

"Mr. Carson! Don't make light of it! I was worried sick!" scolded Mrs. Hughes.

"You're right," he conceded. "Perhaps it was unwise. I'm sorry if I upset you. But it was very … _very_ important."

"But _what_? _What_ was so important?"

"It requires some explanation. I promise to tell you all about it when I come back down. Will you wait for me so that we can talk?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course. Get away with you, now. You'd best hurry, or your bath will be as cold as your little excursion."

"I'll see you soon." He smiled and left her to wonder.

_TBC…_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N If you haven't already read the previous installment, you'll want to do that first because this one picks up where that one left off.**

**Yes, I'm behind on my prompts. I realize now that I probably won't be able to do every single letter, but I'll do as many as I can.**

**Thank you for all the love, both here and on tumblr! If this isn't the most supportive fandom ever, then my name's not chelsie fan!**

D – Dashing

_Christmas Eve, 1924_

Mr. Carson had bathed and was feeling considerably better, but he was still exhausted and not quite warm enough. He stood in his bedroom trying to will himself to dress in his suit to go back downstairs. There was no denying that he really _should_, but after a few minutes, he managed to convince himself that it wasn't strictly _necessary_. It was already rather late. By now, the family would be finished with dinner and possibly with drinks, too. He wouldn't be serving and wouldn't be seen by the family, and he really didn't feel up to joining the rest of the staff for dinner. He planned to ask Mrs. Patmore for his dinner on a tray to eat in his pantry by the fire, and he hoped Mrs. Hughes might choose to take her meal with him, too. He didn't think she'd mind his wearing more comfortable, warmer attire, so he dressed in his warmest pajamas, dressing gown, thick socks, and slippers.

He took the box from his bureau drawer where he'd put it earlier after undressing. He was pleased that it had remained unscathed despite his harrowing journey from the village. It might easily have been damaged – could have gotten crushed or soiled or soaked – but he managed to keep it safe and dry in the pocket of his trousers. The contents would not have been damaged, but the box and wrapping might have been. Fortunately, it was still in perfect condition to present to Mrs. Hughes. He smiled, slipped it into the pocket of his dressing gown, and headed downstairs.

He stopped by the kitchen first, where Mrs. Patmore and her girls were just cleaning up from the family's dinner and preparing for the servants' meal. Daisy informed him that Mrs. Hughes was waiting for him in his pantry with dinner for them both. Mr. Barrow and the footmen were obviously upstairs serving drinks, but the rest of the staff had begun gathering in the servants' hall for their dinner. As he approached his closed door, he heard soft sounds coming from inside. He opened the door quietly and was met with a sight and a sound that warmed him more than any fire ever could. Mrs. Hughes was carefully, lovingly hanging his overcoat and scarf by the fire to dry while she sang a tune, soft and low. He could just barely make out the words and the melody.

"_Dashing away with a silver tray,_

_Dashing away with a silver tray,_

_Dashing away with a silver tray,_

_He stole my heart away._

_Dashing away with a silver tray,_

_Dashing away with a silver tray,_

_Dashing … _"

There was a momentary pause, and he knew she'd sensed his presence. He felt sorely disappointed when she changed her tune.

"… _through the snow_

_In a one horse open sleigh,_

_O'er the fields – _"

She whirled around, pretending just then to notice him. "Oh, Mr. Carson! You're back! You're looking much better. How do you feel now?"

"Better, thank you. But I will say that I'm still a bit chilled, quite famished, and rather tired," he admitted.

"Well, I think we can remedy your first two difficulties right now, but the third will have to wait until you've been warmed up and properly fed. After you've sat by the fire and eaten your dinner, then you can go straight upstairs and get some rest."

"Yes, well, I hope you don't mind my _very_ informal attire."

"Not at all. I'm glad you're comfortable," she assured him.

She'd placed two chairs facing the fire and had set up their dinner on a small table between the chairs. She motioned for him to take a seat, and once he'd sat, she draped her quilt around him as she'd done before. While Mr. Carson delighted in her devoted attentions, he couldn't help thinking that he'd be much warmer if she'd wrapped her arms around him instead.

She took her seat next to him. As they ate their meal, which included a generous serving of steaming broth, Mrs. Hughes made light conversation and refrained from asking about his earlier activities. He would tell her soon enough, but he wanted first to get through the meal. He also hoped that the rest of the staff would finish their dinner quickly and head off to bed. They would be up a little later than usual on Christmas Eve, but not nearly as late as the next night, when the festivities would last until the wee hours.

Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes had just finished eating when Mrs. Patmore knocked on the door.

"I'll just take your tray if you've finished," she offered. "Mr. Carson, I'm pleased to see you looking more yourself."

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore. It's all thanks to you and Mrs. Hughes. You're both entirely too good to me – much better than I deserve," Mr. Carson told her appreciatively.

The cook dismissed his praise as she collected the tray and its contents. "Oh, go on. I'll just give the young ones a few more minutes, and then I'll send them up," she said, inclining her head in the direction of the servants' hall. "I'll be heading up myself just as soon as I take care of this tray."

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore. Dinner was delicious," added Mrs. Hughes.

The three said their good nights, and Mrs. Patmore was true to her word: within ten minutes, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were left entirely alone downstairs.

Mrs. Hughes went to Mrs. Carson's desk and poured two glasses of Scotch from the bottle she'd placed there earlier. She gave one to him, kept the other for herself, and sat back down. They raised their glasses in salute.

"To warmth and safety," offered Mrs. Hughes.

"And to the kind ministrations of caring friends," added Mr. Carson. As he raised his glass to his mouth, he entertained the thought that he would prefer the taste of a certain pair of Scottish lips to that of Scottish whisky. "Thank you for caring for me, Mrs. Hughes. Not just tonight, but always."

"I _do_ care for you, Mr. Carson. Very much. If anything had happened to you tonight … Well, I don't like to think of it. I'm just very grateful that you're home and safe. Will you tell me now what was so important that you trudged all the way to the village and back _in a blizzard_?"

"This," he said as he set down his glass, pulled the small, wrapped box from his pocket, and presented it to her. "Open it." He was pleased to note that her hands trembled as much as his did when she set down her own glass and took the gift from him.

"Mr. Carson … " she whispered breathlessly as she untied the ribbon and pulled the paper off.

"I never imagined doing this in my slippers and pajamas." He smiled at the thought. "In fact, for a long time, I couldn't imagine doing this _at all_. But if your answer is yes, then your seeing me in my nightclothes will become a regular occurrence, I suppose."

She gasped when she opened the box to find a simple, silver band.

"It's nothing fine or expensive," he lamented, "but it was my mother's. I asked Mr. Crenshaw to clean it, buff it, polish it, and re-size it. I also asked him to engrave it. Look inside."

Tears sparkled in her eyes, and her breath hitched as she read the inscription aloud: "_Elspeth Carson_." Her voice was hardly a whisper, yet hearing her speak what would become her new name brought him more joy than he could possibly have imagined.

"I hope I haven't been too presumptuous," he worried.

"Not at all. It does have a lovely _ring_ to it," she responded cleverly.

"I quite agree. For thirty years, this ring belonged to a Mrs. Carson. Since her passing, it has sat in my bureau drawer, waiting to assume its proper place on the finger of another Mrs. Carson. Will you wear it?"

"I think I _must_ marry you – if only to prevent you from foolishly running out into another snowstorm! Yes, of course, I will!"

He stood, placing her quilt on his chair. Holding his hand out for the box, he asked, "May I?"

She also rose, nodded, and gave it to him. He took the ring out, set the box on the table, and slid the ring onto her finger. They stood beaming at each other before coming together for a tender kiss. After a moment, they broke apart, both short of breath.

"Oh, it's perfect!" she declared, admiring the ring on her finger where her hand rested on his chest.

"Since Mr. Crenshaw knows you, he was fairly certain he could reasonably guess your size. I left it with him three days ago. It was ready yesterday, only I hadn't the chance to go and retrieve it until this afternoon. I only just made it in time before he closed up his shop. If necessary, I was prepared to pound on his door until he opened up."

"Oh, you daft man! What were you thinking? Did you honestly think I'd say no if you'd waited two days to ask me? Or if you'd asked me tonight without the ring?"

Mr. Carson now felt comfortable enough to jest lightly. "You've only just said yes, and you're already cross with me?"

"I'd be a lot _more_ cross if we'd recovered this ring from your frozen body lying in the middle of the lane tomorrow morning!"

"But you didn't, and I'm here, safe and warm in your arms," he pointed out.

Mrs. Hughes relented. "You're right. I'll not start things off by rowing over something that never came to pass. I'm too happy to spoil things."

"Are you? I heard you singing, you know."

"Did you, now? Well, I was so relieved that I couldn't help myself. But I want you to promise me: no more '_dashing through the snow_'!"

"But look what's come of it! You've fussed over me, warmed me by the fire, fed me, kissed me, and agreed to marry me. It was absolutely worth every minute of cold I endured!" he teased.

"What would you say if I promised you good food, warm fires, and kisses if you _don't_ go out in the cold?"

"I'd say you have yourself a deal!" As he pulled her to him for another kiss, Mr. Carson found he finally felt warm enough.

**A/N Please leave a little review – or a big one! Thanks in advance!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N Small portions of this are stolen directly from my **_**Charles Carson's A Christmas Carol**_**. (Is it really "stealing" if you take it from yourself?)**

**Minor warning: a tinge of quasi-angst mixed in with mostly cute fluff. And if that doesn't confuse you, then nothing will!**

**Thank you for reading and for all the encouragement you've been sending my way. Please continue to review here and to reblog on tumblr.**

**I've skipped over E and gone right to F. As I mentioned previously, I won't be able to do every letter. I wanted to post this in time for St. Nicholas's feast day on December 6****th****, but it didn't happen. Here it is, five days late. I give you…**

F – Father Christmas

_December, 1925_

Mr. Branson had come to Mrs. Hughes's sitting room with an unusual request: "I have a favor I'd like to ask of Mr. Carson."

"I don't understand," said the housekeeper. "Why have you come to _me_? Why aren't you speaking to _him_?"

"I'm afraid Mr. Carson doesn't like me much."

Mrs. Hughes sighed sympathetically. "It's not that he dislikes you, Mr. Branson. It's just that ... Well, he was very fond of Lady Sybil. We all were. I daresay he would take exception to _any_ man who tried to take her away from us. It's nothing personal."

"I appreciate your sentiment, Mrs. Hughes. I'll accept that it's partly true, and we'll leave it at that. I still think my plan has a better chance of success if _you_ ask him."

"Me? Why me?"

"Mrs. Hughes, we all know that Mr. Carson has a certain ... _fondness_ for you. A soft spot, so to speak. I think he'd be receptive to almost anything you'd ask him," tried Mr. Branson.

"Mr. Branson, I ... "

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. But it's true: he's partial to you. Anyway, this favor involves you, too, to a lesser extent, and I don't think you'll object. Will you ask him for me? I know he won't refuse you."

And _she_ couldn't refuse the hopeful young man standing in front of her. "All right, Mr. Branson, I'll ask him. But I can't guarantee a favorable response. What exactly is this mysterious request?"

"Well, you see ... "

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"He wants me to do _what_?!" cried Mr. Carson, his voice an octave higher than usual and his eyebrows drawn together and raised towards the ceiling. "Certainly not! It's simply out of the question!"

"But Mr. Carson, really! It's not all that terrible," reasoned Mrs. Hughes.

"It's beneath my dignity!" he insisted pompously, sticking his chin out and looking down his nose in defiance. "I have my pride, you know."

"Yes. I know," agreed Mrs. Hughes with a knowing smirk. "Come, now, Mr. Carson. It's for the children."

"Absolutely not!"

"Would it change your mind if I told you that Lady Mary supports the idea?"

"It would not," Mr. Carson maintained stubbornly.

"She's making the arrangements and obtaining all the ... _supplies_ we'll need."

"Then she is wasting her time, because I shall not be doing it. The answer is an emphatic 'no,' and that is final!" he declared as he stormed from the room.

To no one's surprise, his icy resolve melted as quickly as a snowflake on a child's tongue.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

On Christmas Eve, the family were gathered in the drawing room. The adults sat chatting with their after-dinner drinks, while Miss Sybbie, Master George, and Miss Marigold played on the floor with some of their toys. At the appointed time, Mr. Barrow announced to the earl and countess, "My Lady, My Lord, there are some visitors here to see you."

"Well, by all means, Barrow, do show them in," instructed Her Ladyship.

"Very well," he acknowledged with a nod. As he opened the door with a flourish, he introduced the guests: "Father Christmas ... and ... _Mother_ Christmas!"

And into the room strode Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, all decked out in the costumes Lady Mary had magically procured for them. Mr. Carson was dressed in a long, flowing, red velvet robe with white fur trim and a hood. In addition, he sported round spectacles, a white wig, and a very unconvincing beard. He carried a large sack over his shoulder, containing the gifts that Lady Mary had chosen and purchased for the children. Mrs. Hughes's outfit featured a green velvet dress with a plush crimson cape. She also wore spectacles and a wig.

The children's eyes grew huge, and all three tots shrieked with excitement upon seeing their visitors. The adults watched and listened intently.

Mr. Carson sat in a chair by the fire, and Mrs. Hughes stood next to him. Miss Marigold toddled up to him first, and he lifted her onto his lap.

"Hello, my girl! Look at you! So pretty in your new dress! Have you been a good girl for your Mama?" he asked. The little girl was too awestruck to respond, so Mr. Carson continued. "Yes, of course. I know you have. I've brought you a gift. How would you like a new doll?" He pulled a doll from his sack and held it out to her. She took it happily and climbed down from his lap to play with it.

Master George decided his turn was next, and Mr. Carson pulled the boy onto his knee. "Well, hello to you, sir! What a fine young lad you are! Big and strong and handsome! Your Mama must be very proud. And you've been very good, too, haven't you?"

"Yes! I'm a good boy," the lad insisted.

"Do you eat your dinner nicely for Nanny, and do you go to sleep when she tells you to?"

"Always!"

"That's very good, my boy!" Mr. Carson praised him.

"Mama says I'm her favorite little man!" said Master George proudly.

"Of course you are! Now, tell me something, young man. Do you like trains?"

"Choo-choo!" yelled the little boy.

"I think we might have just the thing," said Mrs. Hughes. She reached into the sack and withdrew a toy train. She handed it to Mr. Carson, who then turned it over to the eager young lad.

"Happy Christmas, my little fellow," said Mr. Carson, patting him on the head. The boy hopped down and ran over to show his grandfather his new train.

And finally, Miss Sybbie approached and clambered up onto Mr. Carson's lap. She'd patiently waited her turn and was now ready to have her say. By this point, there was enough other activity in the room to distract most of the others present, but Mr. Branson and Lady Mary still took a keen interest in the scene unfolding before them.

"And hello to you, young lady! How are you this evening?" the big, jolly man greeted the little girl.

"Fine, thank you. I'm glad you came," she said.

"Were you afraid I wouldn't?"

"No, I knew you would come. But I'm glad you came _now _– while we're still awake. I wasn't sure you'd let us _see_ you," she explained further.

"Ah, yes, I see. Well, I do sometimes show myself – but only to very special children. And you three are the most special of all."

"You're special, too. My Papa says you're a saint: Saint Nicholas."

"That's right," confirmed Mr. Carson.

"Then you must live in Heaven. Do you know my Mama?"

Mr. Carson grew solemn. "I do."

Miss Sybbie's eyes bulged in wonder. "Tell me about her."

"Well, she was the sweetest soul you would ever want to meet," he recounted fondly. "Everyone loved her, and she made everyone happy – just like you."

"Like me? Did you know her when she was a girl? Did you bring _her_ gifts, too?" Now the young girl was excited.

"Of course: a doll and a tea set and some sweets."

"Is she happy now?"

"She is, my girl," Mr. Carson assured her. "And she's very proud of you. But she does miss you and your father dreadfully."

"Papa misses her, too. And Auntie Mary misses George's papa. Do you know him, too?"

"I do."

"It's not right for papas and mamas to be apart. It makes me sad. But Papa says sometimes sad things happen," she said with a gravity that was heartrending, coming from one so young.

"Yes, my dear, sometimes they do." Mr. Carson's voice nearly broke.

"Families should be together. That's why I'm glad Mother Christmas came with you. I told Papa she would!" She looked up to Mrs. Hughes and brightened considerably.

"And so I have. And here I am," Mrs. Hughes said, stooping to talk to the little girl.

"Do you have children?"

"We have none of our own, dear, but we love _all_ the children as if they _were_ our own, and we watch over them." She risked an affectionate glance at Mr. Carson, and he regarded her tenderly.

"_All_ of the children? That's an important job! You must be very good at it." Miss Sybbie was impressed.

"We do our best," said Mrs. Hughes humbly. "We've had many years of practice. But right now, we have something for you." She bent down and pulled from the sack a neatly folded, child-sized nurse's apron and cap and an arm band with a red cross. "You'll need this to take care of your dolls and animals if they're ill or injured."

Miss Sybbie unfolded the bundle, inspected the items, and admired them. "A nurse's costume? Like Mama's?"

"Yes, dearie. Your Mama helped so many people, and we can tell you've got her kind and caring heart."

"Papa will like it if I grow up to be like Mama."

"You're well on your way, my girl," Mrs. Hughes encouraged her.

"And _we_ must be on _our_ way," said Mr. Carson. "We've a busy night ahead and many more children to visit. And you and your cousins should be off to bed now."

"Thank you for the costume," said Miss Sybbie politely. "When you see my Mama, will you give her something for me?"

"Certainly. What is it?" asked the butler-turned-jolly-saint.

"This." And the small child threw her arms around the neck of the giant man on whom she was perched. Mr. Carson didn't – or perhaps _couldn't_ – say a word. Fortunately, he didn't need to. Miss Sybbie released him and held her arms out to Mrs. Hughes, saying, "Will you give her one, too?"

"Of course," Mrs. Hughes promised as she leaned over to embrace the sweet little creature.

Mr. Carson rose from his chair and gently set Miss Sybbie on the floor with her new costume. Mr. Branson and Lady Mary came over to join the cozy threesome.

"Father Christmas – _Saint Nicholas_," said Mr. Branson. "Thank you for coming. You've no idea how much it means."

"Oh, I think I might," Mr. Carson responded softly.

Mr. Branson offered his hand, and Mr. Carson shook it. Then the young man turned to Mrs. Hughes and rested a hand on her shoulder. "Please give Sybil our love."

"And Matthew," said Lady Mary with wistful but tearless eyes and a quiet but steady voice. "Mother Christmas, I know you don't typically accompany Father Christmas on his journeys, but we're grateful you came tonight. It's done Miss Sybbie good to see you." She reached out and grasped the older woman's hands in appreciation. "Thank you both for visiting us. I'm sure you're very busy, but it meant the world to the children - and to us." She took one of Mr. Carson's hands in her own and squeezed affectionately.

Father and Mother Christmas bade the family good night and made their way downstairs. No one noticed Mother Christmas slip her small hand inside Father Christmas's great paw.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N This is a continuation of a series I started two years ago. It's an alphabetical list of Christmas prompts. I'd gotten up to F, having skipped over E, before I ran out of steam and had to give up. But I'd always hoped to come back to it. We'll see how far I get this time.**

**So here's E, coming out of order, after F. I may or may not be able to continue in alphabetical order, depending on how and when inspiration strikes.**

E – Egg Nog

_December 23, 1922_

It was late in the evening, and all the servants except the cook, the housekeeper, and the butler had been sent to bed. The three senior staff members were still hard at work in preparation for the next day's Christmas Eve party. Mrs. Patmore was in the kitchen, and Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes sat close together at the little table in her sitting room. They were looking over some papers – menus, schedules, and lists of supplies – and reviewing last-minute details.

"I've already had the wine brought up from the cellar. The crates are in my pantry, ready for tomorrow. Has all the food been delivered? Mrs. Patmore has got everything she needs?" Mr. Carson asked.

"I assume she's got things well in hand. We'd certainly hear about it if something were amiss!" Mrs. Hughes chuckled.

Just then, the subject of their discussion appeared in Mrs. Hughes's open doorway, holding two cups.

"Do I hear my name taken in vain?" wondered the cook.

"Certainly not, Mrs. Patmore!" Mr. Carson assured her. "We were just wondering whether you've got everything you need for tomorrow."

"Well, mostly. I might need to send one of the hall boys to the home farm for some more milk and eggs tomorrow morning. I can't get the ingredients or the proportions right in this punch. I've been at it all evening, but something's not quite right. Will you give it a taste and tell me what you think?"

"Certainly, we will, though I'm sure it's perfect," agreed Mr. Carson.

"Your egg milk punch* is always delightful," Mrs. Hughes informed the cook truthfully.

"Yes, but I'm trying to refine a new receipt, and it's proving a bit tricky," Mrs. Patmore explained as she handed each of her colleagues a cup with some punch.

"Ooh, it's very good," said Mrs. Hughes after taking a sip.

Mr. Carson, also having tasted his punch, concurred. "Wonderful, as always."

"But do you think there's enough vanilla? Too much nutmeg? Should I try some cloves? What about cinnamon?"

"Mrs. Patmore, I think it's perfect," offered Mrs. Hughes.

"But if you would like to continue to experiment, I wouldn't complain about having to taste any further attempts … " added Mr. Carson hopefully.

Both women laughed.

"Always willing to put yourself at the service of others!" remarked Mrs. Patmore teasingly. "All right. Let me get back to it, then. I've some ideas to try. Shall I take your cups?"

"Not a chance! Mine's still half-full!" cried Mr. Carson.

Mrs. Hughes smiled and shook her head. "I'll finish mine, too. Thank you, Mrs. Patmore."

And so the cook returned to the kitchen.

During the next hour, she kept bringing her friends cups of punch to taste. Each time, her concoction contained a pinch more of this or a drop less of that. In truth, each successive formulation was just as delicious as the previous effort, but the butler and housekeeper indulged the cook. Finally, Mrs. Patmore arrived with two cups raised triumphantly in front of her, announcing, "I think I've got it!"

"Well, then! Let's have a taste, shall we?" said Mrs. Hughes encouragingly.

Mrs. Patmore placed the two cups in the waiting hands of the others, who obliged her by trying yet another version of perfection.

"Ooh! That's nice. It's a bit strong, though, don't you think?" observed Mrs. Hughes.

"Hmm … Perhaps you're right. I did go a little heavy on the brandy. I'll try again with less." Mrs. Patmore looked to the butler. "Mr. Carson? What do you think?"

Mr. Carson offered his opinion. "It's delicious, of course, but it does have quite a kick to it. Perhaps it _would_ be wise to reduce the amount of alcohol slightly. We wouldn't want anyone to become inebriated after three swallows!"

"Very well," sighed the weary cook. "Back to the drawing board! Thank you both." And she made her way back to the kitchen.

A short while later, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were still hard at work, and Mrs. Patmore arrived again with more punch.

"All right. Try _this_," she said.

Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson each took a cup and sipped.

Mr. Carson sputtered. His eyes grew wide, and his eyebrows shot upwards. "Goodness! What did you put in this?" he wanted to know.

"Oh, a little of this and a little of that," Mrs. Patmore told him enigmatically.

"Would 'this' and 'that' be large quantities of spirits?" he wondered aloud.

"You don't like it?" asked the cook, looking slightly hurt.

"I didn't say that," soothed the butler. "It's very good. Only I thought you were going to add _less_ brandy. I fear anyone who drinks more than a sip of this will find himself much the worse for wear."

"It _is_ rather potent … " the housekeeper commented.

"I see. Well, we can't have that, now, can we? I'll see what I can do to fix it," said Mrs. Patmore, and once again, she resumed her work in the kitchen.

Having finished their discussion over the menus and schedules, Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson moved their chairs away from the table and closer to the fire so that they could converse more comfortably.

"I'm certainly glad we're finished with that," remarked Mrs. Hughes, inclining her head and casting her eyes towards the papers on her table. "I don't mind admitting that the figures on those pages were starting to dance before my eyes! I'm not sure whether it's fatigue or Mrs. Patmore's punch, but my powers of concentration are not at their best right now."

"I'm afraid I know all too well _exactly_ what you mean! I'm feeling much the same," Mr. Carson concurred. "I couldn't add two numbers or read three words right now if my life depended on it!"

As the butler and housekeeper sat chatting, the cook continued to bring them cups of punch. Mrs. Hughes noticed that the punch seemed to be getting progressively stronger, and so she wisely took only a tiny sip from each new cup she was given. Mr. Carson, on the other hand, was either far enough gone already that didn't notice the amount of alcohol he was consuming … or else perhaps simply enjoyed the punch so much that he didn't _care_ that he was becoming slightly tipsy.

When Mrs. Patmore handed him what must have been his tenth cup, he downed it in one gulp, and nodded approvingly. "By Jove, I've think you've got it!" he declared.

"Yes, well, it's a good job, too, because I think _you've_ had it, as well! Perhaps you ought to head up now," suggested Mrs. Patmore sensibly.

"Yes, perhaps I should," he agreed, "before I start to feel the effects of … of …." He spoke slowly, seeming to lose his train of thought.

As he rose from his chair, he wavered slightly but managed to remain on his feet. He meandered his way slowly and unsteadily out the door and into the corridor. Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore looked at each other and reached an unspoken agreement. They rushed to him, reaching him just before he arrived at the stairs, and each grasped one of his arms, to which he offered no protest.

It was no small effort for the two relatively diminutive women to assist a man of Mr. Carson's substantial bulk up three flights of stairs. Though he retained just enough of his mental faculties and physical coordination to be able to propel himself forward and upward under his own power, the housekeeper and cook did, on several occasions, need to help the butler keep his balance to prevent him from falling over. Had he actually toppled over, his custodians would have been hard pressed to heave him back up; fortunately, their assistance proved adequate to keep him upright. Another factor that worked in the women's favor was that Mr. Carson was docile, quiet, and cooperative. Perhaps even in his compromised state, he was aware of the importance of propriety and the need for caution. Thus, the cook and the housekeeper managed to guide the butler to his room relatively discreetly, without causing too much commotion and without disturbing anyone.

Once the three were inside Mr. Carson's room, Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes steered him to his bed, where he plopped down heavily, without his characteristic gracefulness. The women stood next to him, one on each side.

"Mr. Carson, will you be all right if we leave you now? Can you manage on your own from here?" whispered Mrs. Patmore, bending towards him. Even though he was seated and she was standing, his head was not far below hers.

"My head is … not good," he mumbled, only partially answering her question.

"Right, then. What should we do?" Mrs. Hughes asked Mrs. Patmore.

"You're asking _me_? How should _I_ know?" sputtered the cook. "Do you think I often find myself in a bedroom with a drunken man?"

"I am not _drunk_, Mrs. Patmore," Mr. Carson insisted, wincing as he spoke. "I am merely … _not at my best_ right now."

Mrs. Patmore ignored him, addressing the housekeeper instead. "Anyway, I've got to get back down to the kitchen. There's another pot of punch simmering. It's probably scorched already." The cook looked at the butler, waving her hands in the air helplessly. "Just … just make him more comfortable … I don't know … Help him take off his coat and loosen his collar and tie. And his shoes will need to come off, too. Then just tip him over and cover him up. There's not much more we can do for him in his present state."

"I can't … _undress_ him … or … or … put him in _bed_!" exclaimed a scandalized Mrs. Hughes – urgently … and a little too loudly.

"I didn't say you should _undress_ him! Not completely!" argued Mrs. Patmore, trying to moderate the volume of her voice. "Just take off his coat, his collar and tie, and his shoes. And he's already _in_ bed – or _on_ it. He'll likely slump over on his own, and you can just toss a blanket over him."

"I _am_ still right here, you know," Mr. Carson reminded them, speaking slowly and with great effort, "and I'm not _that_ far gone. You speak as if I were helpless. I'm perfectly capable of tending to myself."

But disproving his own words, he began to wobble, and Mrs. Hughes grasped his arm so that he wouldn't tip over completely. She sighed in resignation. "Oh, very well. Go on and see to your punch," she told Mrs. Patmore. "I'll see to our Mr. Carson."

"Right, then. After I take care of the kitchen, I'll bank your fire and tidy up your sitting room for you," Mrs. Patmore offered. "And I'll make sure everything downstairs is locked up and in order. Our friend here is no condition to make his rounds."

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore," said Mrs. Hughes.

The cook nodded and took her leave.

The housekeeper then turned to the butler. "Now, then, Mr. Carson. Let's see what we can do for you. Can you manage your tie, do you think?"

"Yes, I'm sure I can," he replied. While she steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, he lifted his hands to his neck and was able to pull loose his bow tie without too much difficulty. He dropped it on the bed next to him.

"Ah, there we go. That's much better," she said. "Now what about your collar? Can you undo the studs?"

He made an attempt, but the removal of his collar studs required more coordination than the removal of his tie had. Though he fiddled with the front stud at his throat, his fingers would not cooperate enough to release the stud from his collar.

"Here. Let me help," offered Mrs. Hughes. She bent over him, and he tilted his head back, but the angle was awkward.

"Do you think you can stand?" asked Mrs. Hughes. "I think I might be able to reach it better that way."

"Certainly," Mr. Carson answered. But when he tried to rise, he swayed dangerously. Mrs. Hughes wrapped her arms around his middle to keep him from falling, then managed to lower him back onto his bed.

"Right. If you can't stand, then I'll need to sit," she reasoned, and she sat down next to him on the bed.

From her new position, she had better access to his neck and his collar. While she worked, he cooperated by holding his chin up. It took her only a moment to remove the stud, and the front part of his collar sprang open.

"There," she said, and she looked down at the stud in her hands. But Mr. Carson was staring at her.

"You're very beautiful, Mrs. Hughes," said Mr. Carson quietly but quite seriously.

Mrs. Hughes was taken aback momentarily, but she soon collected herself enough to form a self-deprecating response. "Oh, my! I fear the punch has affected either your eyesight or your judgement. Possibly both."

"No, it's true!" Mr. Carson insisted. "My physical coordination may be impaired, but I assure you my vision and my discernment are perfectly sound. I thought you lovely before I consumed any punch, and I'll find you just as beautiful when its effects fade away completely. I've always been smitten with you. And I've wanted so badly to tell you, but … " And his voice trailed off.

Mrs. Hughes stretched to set the stud on his nightstand and then turned back to him. "Mr. Carson, I'm afraid you're going to regret your words in the morning – _if_ you even _remember_ them! Surely you can't mean what you're saying right now. We need to get you to sleep. Now, let's get your other stud, in back." Mrs. Hughes was flustered, but she succeeded in maintaining her composure. With her usual practicality, she applied herself studiously to her task. Mr. Carson was still facing her, and she had to put one arm around each side of his neck to reach the back of his collar. But certain circumstances – his recent words, his proximity, the way he was looking at her, the fact that she was currently alone with him in his bedroom, sitting next to him on his bed, with her arms wrapped around his neck – made it impossible for her even to concentrate, much less to accomplish her aim of releasing the stud.

"I can't seem to manage it this way," she whispered, her face very close to his. "Will you turn around, please, so that I can see what I'm doing?" She thought that if they weren't facing each other and if she didn't have her arms around him, her chances of success might be greatly increased. She lowered her hands from his collar, and he complied with her request, turning himself away from her.

"That's better," she breathed, her voice ragged. Simultaneously blessing and cursing the opportunity to touch him so intimately, she pulled the top of his tailcoat collar down and away from his neck far enough so that she could see and reach his collar stud, and he obliged by tilting his head forward and down.

Mr. Carson spoke while she worked. "It's true that my bodily dexterity is somewhat lacking at the moment. But my mind and my heart have never been clearer. The alcohol has only served to diminish some of my fears – to make me bold enough to say what I should have said ages ago."

Within a few short seconds, the back stud and collar were both free, and she placed both them on his nightstand, next to the other stud.

"I feel I must warn you that it's the punch talking. You'll lament this in the morning," she cautioned him.

"I do lament not having spoken sooner, but I won't regret speaking now – not unless it upsets you."

"No, it doesn't upset me. It just surprises me. I'd no idea ... "

"I don't expect you to return my feelings. You needn't say anything. I only want you to know how I feel. I want to be able to say it once."

Mrs. Hughes almost couldn't bear it. She desperately wanted to believe that he was speaking the truth, that he wasn't acting rashly or imprudently because he'd drunk too much punch. But the thought of having her hopes dashed in the morning if he really didn't mean what he was saying – if this all came to naught – was enough to cause her to squelch any hopes that began to spring up.

"Come now, Mr. Carson. Let's make you more comfortable," she said. And to distract them both, she slid off the bed and stooped down to remove his shoes. She had taken one shoe off and was working on the other when Mr. Carson spoke again.

"I love you, Mrs. Hughes," he said softly. She dropped the second shoe, which she'd just finished removing, and froze. After a moment, she was able to look up at him, and when she did, she found him calmly gazing down at her.

"I'm afraid you're in no condition make such declarations tonight. You're not feeling quite yourself … " she tried. But he took her hands and pulled her back up to sit next to him on the bed.

"On the contrary, I've _never_ felt _more_ myself."

"You need to sleep," she said, hopeful and afraid all at once. She extracted her hands from his grasp and moved them to his shoulders, hoping to push off his tailcoat but finding it difficult because he was sitting on the tails. He lifted himself just enough so that together they were able to maneuver the tails out from underneath him. Then she slid her hands under his lapels and pushed the coat from his shoulders and down his arms, allowing it to fall to the bed behind him.

"I want to kiss you," he told her before she was able to do anything else. He regarded her very seriously.

"Mr. Carson, I … " was the only reply she could form.

"I won't, of course. I never would. Not without your permission. But you should know how badly I want to."

Mrs. Hughes could endure no more, and a muffled sob escaped from her throat. She cast her eyes down to her lap and covered her mouth with her hand.

Mr. Carson's voice was filled with remorse, and he laid his hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes. I should never have said anything. I don't what I hoped to accomplish by telling you. My admission was unwelcome, and now I've just made you uncomfortable. Can you ever forgive me?"

She decided honesty and forthrightness would probably be best at this point. "No, it's not that, Mr. Carson. Not at all. This is exceedingly trying for me. You see, your admission is most welcome indeed, and I want more than anything to believe you mean it. Only I fear that you don't fully realize what you're saying … that you've acted in the heat of the moment, on a rash impulse … that you'll regret it all in the morning, when you head is clear. And _that_ would break my heart." Her voice cracked on those few words.

"What?!" he asked, clearly as stunned by her admission and she'd been by his.

"I love you, too, Mr. Carson, and I _have done_ for a long time. Only I'm frightened you won't even remember this little talk when you wake tomorrow. Or worse yet, you'll be sorry it happened."

He let out a small huff of a laugh and reached out to brush a tear from her cheek. "I promise you: I mean every word I've said tonight. This 'little talk' has been the most important conversation of my life. I'll never forget it, and I'll never regret it. Mrs. Hughes, in all our years together, have you ever known me to allow myself to become completely drunk or to lose control over myself in any way?"

"No," she conceded.

"And am I the type of man who says things he doesn't mean?"

She now felt secure enough to tease him a little with the truth. "Well, sometimes – when you're being particularly obstreperous." And she gave him a sly smile, which he returned, before she continued more earnestly. "But never something as important as this."

He settled his hands at her hips, and she rested hers on his shoulders.

"We don't need to talk any more tonight," he said. "If you'd like, we can talk more tomorrow, when you'll have no reason to doubt my sincerity."

"That might be best," she agreed.

They both leaned forward and rested their foreheads together, smiling and sighing contentedly.

After a time, Mrs. Hughes spoke again. "Well, then, Mr. Carson, I think you should lie down now and let me tuck you in. Then I'll head off to bed myself. The sooner we're both asleep, the sooner tomorrow will come," she pointed out.

"I'm feeling much better now, thanks to you. I think I'd like to wash up and change into my pajamas. You go ahead, now. You must be tired."

"Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"Yes," said Mr. Carson. "I'll be fine." And to demonstrate his point, he rose, drawing her up with him. This time, he remained standing steadily enough that she was assured of his stability. "There's just one more thing I must tell you tonight before I let you go," he murmured. "Tomorrow, I'm going to ask you to marry me."

She blinked back tears before responding, "And tomorrow, I'll say yes."

He beamed at her, struggling with tears of his own. "Well, then! You'd best be getting on. I hate to send you away, but as you've so wisely explained, the sooner we go to sleep, the sooner tomorrow will come."

"You're right, of course," she conceded, but she made no move to leave.

"Mrs. Hughes … " Mr. Carson moved his face so that it was almost touching hers, his breath tickling her lips. "Must I wait until tomorrow to kiss you?"

"No, Mr. Carson, I shouldn't think so," whispered Mrs. Hughes.

And as his lips touched hers, she noted happily that he tasted like Mrs. Patmore's egg milk punch. She would have to remember thank the cook; her most recent combination of ingredients was indeed the _perfect_ formulation.

**A/N *If my research is correct, egg nog historically was called "egg milk punch," among other things. It was originally developed as a way to preserve fresh milk and eggs; the addition of alcohol allowed such perishable (and often scarce) ingredients to be safely kept and consumed long after they would otherwise have spoiled. Traditionally, it was favored among the aristocracy and upper classes. Also, I've seen it written as both "egg nog" and "eggnog." I'm not sure which is correct; I just picked one.**

**Phew! I hadn't imagined that this chapter would end up so ridiculously long! I'm sorry about that. I hope it's not as tedious to read as it was to write!**

**Please leave a review if you're able. I know that this time of year is busy for everyone, but if you've enjoyed reading this and if you'll take the time to leave me a few words, it really will help motivate me to make the time and find the energy to keep writing. Thanks in advance!**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N Thank you for all the reviews to my previous "egg nog" chapter. Your encouraging responses make me want to keep writing more.**

**This takes place shortly after Elsie arrived at Downton as head housemaid. I'm not sure when that was. At different points in the series, we've been given conflicting information. I never know what to believe. But for the purposes of this story, I'm going to pretend she arrived in 1895. Work with me, please.**

G - Gifts

_December 23, 1895_

Elsie sat at the table in servants' hall with some of the other servants, chatting cheerily for a few minutes before they were sent up to bed.

"Elsie, might I see you for a moment in my pantry?" called Mr. Carson to the new head housemaid as he strode through the doorway.

"Certainly, Mr. Carson. Just let me put my teacup in the kitchen," said Elsie, rising from her seat.

"Leave it. I'll take it along with mine when I'm going," offered Beryl, the assistant cook, with whom Elsie had been talking before her summons.

Elsie nodded. "Thank you, Beryl."

"And the rest of you have ten more minutes. Then I want you all to go up to bed," declared Mr. Carson.

"Yes, Mr. Carson," responded the others in unison.

As Elsie followed Mr. Carson down the corridor, he began to explain his dilemma. "I'm afraid I must ask for your assistance with a certain matter. You see, there is a particular task that Mrs. Davies and I usually accomplish together. But with her being confined to her room, I've been left to my own devices, and I find myself rather out of my depth. When she first took ill, she told me to ask you for help. I thought I could manage on my own, but ... "

They arrived at Mr. Carson's door, and he opened it and ushered her inside. The sight that greeted her was the very last thing she ever expected to see in the butler's pantry.

"What in Heaven's name?" cried Elsie, gaping at the mountain of gifts, haphazardly piled and poorly wrapped.

"They're Christmas gifts, of course," explained Mr. Carson superfluously.

"Yes, I gathered as much. But for _whom_? And _from_ whom?"

"Well … everyone!" he told her – as if that would clarify matters.

"What do you mean, 'everyone'?" she asked, still befuddled.

"For the staff and for the family."

"I see," said Elsie, though she really _didn't_ see.

Mr. Carson elaborated. "Mrs. Davies does a good deal of the shopping, though her ladyship chooses and orders many of the items herself. And Mrs. Davies and I store the packages down here, and we wrap them. Well, _she_ wraps them. _I_ write out the labels and attach them. But this year, Mrs. Davies contracted the flu before we were able to see to the gifts, and I doubt she'll be fully recovered by tomorrow. I tried to manage on my own, but … well, you can see for yourself that my gift-wrapping skills are somewhat lacking. I feel foolish asking, but … "

Elsie could see that the poor man was embarrassed, so she decided to spare him the discomfort of having to admit his shortcomings and ask for her help. "Mr. Carson, might I help? It would go much faster with two of us. 'Many hands make light work,' after all."

"Would you, really?" He sounded eager and relieved at her offer, but he was careful not to press her. "I'm sure you have plenty of other work, especially with Mrs. Davies being ill. I wouldn't want to impose an added burden on you. The wrapping of gifts is surely not among the required duties of the head housemaid."

"No, perhaps not," she told him. "But the wrapping of gifts apparently _is_ among the required duties of the housekeeper, who is currently confined to her bed, unable to carry out _any_ of her duties. So now the task falls to the _acting_ housekeeper, who is only too happy to place herself at your service."

"Well, then. That's very kind of you, Elsie." He appeared genuinely touched by her kindness.

She smiled at him. "Not at all. Now, then. Let's see what we can do about these packages."

For the next hour, Elsie unwrapped and re-wrapped dozens of boxes, occasionally asking Mr. Carson to place a finger on the string to hold it in place while she tied it. (He proved perfectly capable of _that_ simple task.) At the same time, Mr. Carson wrote names on the labels, even going so far as to add small flourishes here and there. Then he tied the completed tags to the gifts Elsie had wrapped. All the while, they conversed amiably, becoming better acquainted, discovering common interests as well as ways in which they differed. As Elsie had predicted, they soon boasted a large pile of neatly wrapped, properly labeled presents (along with a smaller pile of crumpled paper and discarded string from Mr. Carson's earlier failed attempts). They sat back, sighed in satisfaction, and admired the fruits of their labors.

"I can't thank you enough, Elsie," said Mr. Carson sincerely. "I'll be sure to tell Mrs. Davies your assistance has been invaluable."

But she dismissed his thanks. "Oh, it was nothing. I don't mind, truly. I've enjoyed your company and our pleasant conversation. Shall we take everything upstairs now and put it under the tree?"

"No, I don't think so. Not tonight. It's late. I'll have some of the hall boys carry it all upstairs in the morning. Why don't you go on up to bed now? I've kept you long enough. I'll finish with everything here."

"Very well, Mr. Carson. I'll say good night." And she rose to leave. But before she got very far, Mr. Carson stopped her.

"Elsie … " he called. "I'm pleased you're here at Downton. You're a good worker and a kind woman. I'm sure you'll do well for yourself."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson. I do hope so," she said.

**A/N This story line will be continued in subsequent chapters (L and M, I think, though I can't say with 100% certainty).**

**Please review if you can spare a few moments. I'm grateful for every little bit of encouragement. Thank you in advance.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N I had hoped to continue alphabetically, and I had written a good deal of Holly and Ivy, but it just wasn't working out. So I decided to skip ahead to L. And anyway, it might make more sense this way because this one continues from the previous chapter. Furthermore, the prompt for L was originally supposed to be "laughter," but I could come up with nothing on that topic. So I changed the L prompt to "light" to suit my purpose. Yes, I cheated.**

**Thank you for continuing to encourage me in this endeavor. It's difficult to find the time and energy to write at this busy time of year, and I understand that it's also a challenge to make the time to read and review. I appreciate your taking the time to support me and my writing.**

**If you haven't read the previous chapter, please do that first so that this will make more sense. This picks up the day after "Gifts."**

L - Light

_December 24, 1895_

Everyone else had gone to bed, but Elsie found she couldn't sleep. She was tired from all the preparations leading up to Christmas Eve and from the servants' humble but joyful celebration earlier in the evening; yet she found she was too excited to settle herself and to allow herself simply to drift into a restful slumber. Christmas was not celebrated in nearly the same way when she was growing up in Scotland; and even since she'd been in England, she'd never worked in a house as grand as Downton Abbey, where even the simple ways in which the staff observed the holiday seemed magical to her.

In her restless state, she lit a candle and left her bedroom, heading downstairs to the kitchen, hoping to find some milk or at least to get a glass of water. But when she arrived at the bottom of the stairs, she looked down the corridor past the kitchen and noticed a faint light coming from the butler's pantry. Then she heard some scuffling about and a soft grunting noise. She crept quietly towards the open door and peeked in to find Mr. Carson struggling to hold both a lantern and a heap of packages at the same time.

"Mr. Carson?" she called quietly, trying not to startle him.

Despite her effort, he _was_ startled and dropped two of the small packages. "What?! Oh, Elsie! You gave me a fright."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sneak up on you. But what in the world are you doing? I thought Peter and Stephen carried up all the gifts earlier."

"All but the ones from Father Christmas. Mrs. Davies usually helps me take them up after the young ladies have gone to bed, but … "

"Then why didn't you ask for my help?" Elsie wanted to know. "Had I known, I would have offered … but … well, I've never worked in a house with children before, so it didn't occur to me."

"I couldn't ask. You're doing all of Mrs. Davies's work in addition to your own. You've enough to do without any extra tasks. Your help with the wrapping was already beyond what might be expected."

"Perhaps. But how do you expect to carry all those packages upstairs in one hand while holding your lamp in the other?"

"Why, one a time, of course. Possibly two … if they're small. I've just determined that three at once are too many," Mr. Carson observed, setting down the lantern and picking up the fallen packages at this feet.

"Yes, I see that," Elsie chuckled.

"And why are _you_ awake at this late hour?" he asked her. "Nothing's wrong, I hope?"

She pulled her housecoat around her more tightly. "Oh, no. Everything's fine. Too much excitement, I think. I just couldn't sleep."

"Ah." He nodded his understanding. "I'm glad all is well."

"As long as I'm awake and I'm here anyway, let me help you take those up. It will take you all night if you do it on your own."

"That's very kind, and I thank you for the offer, but I can manage."

"I'm sure you can, but I insist. Here. Give me the lamp. I can at least carry _that_ to light your way. We don't need you stumbling on the stairs or tipping over the tree and waking the whole house!"

Mr. Carson yielded. "Very well," he said. "You make a valid point. Thank you." Elsie set down her candle and blew it out, and Mr. Carson handed her the oil lamp. Then he picked up a stack of wrapped boxes. She also took one small package in her free hand and led the way.

He followed her up the stairs and into the Great Hall, but as they approached the tree, a faint rustling sound on the gallery above them halted their progress. They looked up towards the noise and could barely perceive a small figure, revealed by the faint moonlight filtering through the windows and skylights. Thinking quickly, Elsie took the boxes from Mr. Carson and handed him the lantern. She stowed the gifts under a nearby table, then made a shooing motion and inclined her head in the direction of the miniature midnight prowler. He understood her wordless instructions and climbed the stairs while she hid in the shadows. She watched the lamplight ascend the staircase until it exposed, in addition to Mr. Carson's large frame, the crouching form of the young Miss Mary Crawley*. Elsie strained her ears to hear their muffled conversation and squinted her eyes to see their interactions.

"Miss Mary!" said Mr. Carson in a feeble attempt at a whisper. Elsie shook her head and smiled, wondering how his voice had not already awakened the rest of the family. "Shouldn't you be in the nursery in your bed?" he questioned the small child.

"It's Christmas Eve!" Miss Mary reminded the butler. "And Father Christmas is going to visit! Has he been here already?

"No, Miss Mary, I don't believe so," Mr. Carson told her. "I've just been performing my nightly checks, and I've seen no trace of him yet. But it's my understanding that it's his habit to arrive _after_ the children are all _sleeping_."

"But what if the children _can't_ sleep? What if they don't _want_ to?" the little girl wanted to know.

"Hmm … " Mr. Carson pretended to consider. "That is indeed a problem, then. Well, we don't want to stay here and wake your sisters, as well. I wonder whether a visit to the kitchen and a glass of milk might help."

"Oh, yes!" cried the excited tot. She took the butler's hand, and together they began to descend the stairs.

"And perhaps a little chat? You could tell me a story," Mr. Carson suggested.

Miss Mary laughed. "_You_ can tell _me_ a story!"

Elsie hurried ahead of them, wondering whether Mr. Carson had remembered about the open door to his pantry and the rest of the gifts remaining within. It's wouldn't do for Miss Mary to see Father Christmas's gifts in the butler's pantry. Having no lamp or candle, Elsie felt her way downstairs. Fortunately, even in her short time at the house, she'd come to know her way around quite well. She scurried into Mr. Carson's pantry, retrieved her candle, and lit it with the matches she carried in the pocket of her housecoat. Closing the pantry door as she left, she went and sat in the servants' hall, found a book someone had left behind, and pretended to read. No sooner had she settled into her chair and opened the volume than the butler and eldest Crawley daughter alighted at the bottom of the stairs.

"Someone's here!" whispered Miss Mary, pointing to the light emanating from Elsie's candle.

"Hello?" called Elsie, acting as if she had just sensed the presence of the others when they appeared in the doorway.

"Oh! Hello! It's Miss Hughes," Mr. Carson said, feigning surprise. "Miss Mary, do you know Miss Hughes?"

"Oh, yes. Miss Hughes helps Nanny sometimes. She's very nice," Miss Mary informed Mr. Carson.

"Hello, Miss Mary," Elsie greeted the girl cordially.

"Hello, Miss Hughes. You couldn't sleep, either?" wondered Miss Mary.

"No, I'm afraid I couldn't. It seems there's an epidemic of sleeplessness in the house tonight." Elsie smiled at the butler and his young charge. "Why don't you two sit down here, and I'll see about heating up some milk for us. Perhaps I can even find some biscuits or custard."

While Elsie fussed about in the kitchen, warming the milk and locating some treats, she could hear Mr. Carson telling Miss Mary the tale of _The Nutcracker and the Mouse King_. Elsie laughed to herself at the animation with which Mr. Carson recounted the story. In her time at Downton thus far, brief as it had been, she had known Mr. Carson to be caring and considerate, but he had never shown himself to be overly expressive – or even _slightly_ expressive, for that matter. In fact, to the contrary, he had always appeared stoic and impassive. But now, in the wee hours of Christmas Eve, here, below stairs, he was telling a child a fantastical account of whimsical creatures and dramatic events. Elsie tucked this revelation away in her mind and in her heart, to be pondered later.

Mr. Carson was just finishing his tale as Elsie arrived with a tray holding three glasses of milk, three biscuits, and three bowls of custard. Mr. Carson had removed his tailcoat and wrapped it around Miss Mary's shoulders to keep her warm, and the girl looked comical indeed, with her tiny feet dangling beneath her and the butler's large, stark tailcoat draped over her small, frilly nightdress.

Mr. Carson helped Elsie distribute the refreshments, and the three vigil-keepers enjoyed their late-night repast. When they had finished, Elsie took the empty glasses and dishes to the kitchen and washed them. Mr. Carson took Miss Mary back to the nursery. A few minutes later, he returned.

"Well! That was … unexpected," he said. But his grin told Elsie that the diversion was not unwelcome.

"Yes, it was," she agreed, also smiling. "Shall we take up the rest of the gifts before something else delays us?"

"Yes, I think we should," Mr. Carson concurred.

Mrs. Hughes once again took up the lamp and led Mr. Carson up and down the stairs, forth to the Great Hall and back to his pantry again, until all the remaining gifts lay neatly arranged under the tree. As they closed up Mr. Carson's pantry and began the trek up to their respective bedrooms, Elsie once again held the candle, lighting their way.

Just before they separated, he turned to her and said, "I'm grateful for your help again, Elsie. Now I find myself even further in your debt. I wouldn't have fared so well tonight on my own. Thank you for leading the way and lighting my path."

"There is no 'debt' between friends, Mr. Carson. I'm only too happy to point you in the right direction and keep you from stumbling." And she turned towards the women's staircase, calling over her shoulder, "Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson."

"Happy Christmas, Elsie," he returned before mounting the men's stairs.

**A/N *Mary is four years old here; according to the S1 script book, she was born in 1891. (Edith was born in 1892 – and Sybil in 1895.)**

**I can't see an earl and a countess skulking about the house in the wee hours, arranging packages, so I imagine it would have been up to the servants to play Father Christmas. I may be wrong about that, but it worked for this story.**

**I know that on more than one occasion, Mr. Carson indicates that Mrs. Hughes wasn't around when the girls were small. But in 1913, Joe Burns has a son in the army – a son who must have been born at least 18 years _prior_ to 1913, _after_ Mrs. Hughes turned Joe down the first time and he married someone else. And Thomas says in 1925 that Mrs. Hughes has been at Downton for 30 years. So for the sake of this story, I assumed she arrived in 1895.**

**Please leave a review if you can. Your feedback means a great deal to me.**

**I haven't yet responded to reviews from the previous chapter, but I plan to do that as soon as I post this one. Thanks for your patience and understanding.**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N This chapter is set in the same "story universe" as the previous two chapters, but it takes place 25 years later.**

**I know; I'm very far behind on the prompts. They're taking far more time and effort than they should. I'll do as many as I can. Thanks for your continuing support.**

K- Kids

_December 24, 1920_

"That's the last," declared Mr. Carson as he affixed a label to the box Mrs. Hughes had just wrapped. He added it to the stack of gifts. "I'll tell Alfred and James to take them up. You've set aside the ones for Miss Sybbie?"

"What? Why?" asked Mrs. Hughes.

"Well, Father Christmas must bring _those_ later," explained Mr. Carson, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I know it's been a long time since he's visited, but surely you haven't forgotten!"

Mrs. Hughes couldn't help but laugh. "I haven't forgotten! But Miss Sybbie is seven months old! Surely, an infant won't know the difference. It's all the same to her whether she sees her gifts piled with the rest now or they magically appear tomorrow morning," Mrs. Hughes pointed out logically.

"Nevertheless, Mrs. Hughes, when there is a child in the house, Father Christmas _must visit_," insisted Mr. Carson. "It's tradition."

"If you say so, Mr. Carson," she conceded, still chuckling.

"You _will_ join me later, won't you?"

"Of course I will."

"Excellent!" he declared, smiling broadly.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Later that night, after the others had gone to sleep, Mr. Carson found Mrs. Hughes in her sitting room with Miss Sybbie's gifts.

"Everyone's gone up," Mr. Carson said. "The family are all settled; Mrs. Patmore has just finished in the kitchen; and I've sent the staff to bed. Are you ready?"

"Indeed! I'm rather looking forward to it," Mrs. Hughes told him.

"It's been a long time since we've done this," he commented.

"Not since the wee one's mother was small," she added.

They both were silent for a time, lost in bittersweet recollections.

After a moment, Mrs. Hughes returned her attention to the pressing matter and clasped her hands together. "Well, we'd best get on."

"Right you are," Mr. Carson said.

He took an armload of gifts, and so did she; and they proceeded up the stairs and into the Great Hall.

"At least _this_ time we're able to see better with the electric lights," he observed as they arranged the gifts neatly by the tree. "_Last_ time, we needed candles and oil lamps!"

"I remember!" she laughed. "See, Mr. Carson? Not all progress is bad."

"Mmm … " he grunted – not exactly concurring … but not dissenting, either.

Just as they were placing the final gifts, an infant's whimper sounded from the direction of the gallery. Miss Sybbie was not crying loudly, but she was obviously becoming agitated.

"I'll go and see to her," said Mrs. Hughes. "I'll tell Nanny to go back to sleep. There's no sense in troubling the poor woman when you and I are still awake."

The housekeeper climbed the stairs to the nursery while Mr. Carson checked over the gifts and the tree. A moment later, Mrs. Hughes returned to the Great Hall, carrying the child, who was clearly much happier now that she was being held.

"See here, Miss Sybbie!" said Mrs. Hughes. "It's Mr. Carson!" Then she turned to address the butler. "Mr. Carson, look who was wide awake and wanted to come and see you."

"Well, hello, young lady!" He smiled at the baby and reached to grasp her chubby hand. "What's got you so restless tonight, eh?"

Miss Sybbie looked at him with wide eyes.

"I think she's excited about Father Christmas's visit," Mrs. Hughes postulated.

"Oh, I see. Well, what if I told you he's already come, hm?" Mr. Carson said to the little girl. At the sound of his voice, Miss Sybbie leaned over and stretched towards him, and he held out his arms to receive her. Mrs. Hughes relinquished her small charge into the capable hands of her trusted colleague.

"Look here, Miss Sybbie," continued Mr. Carson, gesturing with a sweeping motion of his arm in the direction of the gifts. "These gifts are all for you. They're from Father Christmas. I've just seen him."

The baby gurgled and cooed.

"Really?! You don't say!" The butler carried on his half of the conversation as if his companion were speaking sensibly to him, and the housekeeper listened and observed. "You really think so?" he continued. "A rocking horse, you say? Well, I don't know. You see, you mustn't open them until tomorrow morning, with your family. But perhaps we can take a little peek."

Mr. Carson crouched down in front of the heap of presents. Holding Miss Sybbie in one arm, he picked up a small, flat box wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red bow. "Do you suppose this might be your rocking horse?" he asked. He examined the package carefully before shaking his head. "No. I'm afraid not. This box is too large and too heavy."

The infant was enjoying herself immensely. The electric lights and shiny decorations on the tree caught her attention, and she lunged forward in attempt to touch or grab them. Fortunately, her alert custodian acted quickly enough to catch her arm before she did any damage.

"What about this one?" He distracted her by procuring from the stack a perfectly spherical object. It was covered in a wad of paper that was gathered and tied together all at one point on the top. "It might be your rocking horse." He listed to her babbling for a moment before pressing on. "A ball, you think? No! It never is! It's far too square!"

Mrs. Hughes watched and listened with rapt attention while Mr. Carson scrutinized several other presents, keeping up his nonsensical monologue with exaggerated expression, much to the delight of the amused little girl in his arms.

Finally, he came to an object that clearly _was_ a rocking horse. It was concealed by the child-sized quilt that was draped over it, and a large red bow sat on top of it, but its size and shape identified the gift beyond any reasonable doubt.

"That one, you say?" he asked Miss Sybbie, pointing to the horse. "Oh, no, I don't think so. It couldn't be. That one looks like a doll … or a new dress." But he lifted the corner of the blanket, pretended to peek underneath, and then let it fall back to the ground. He gasped in feigned surprise. "Why, I don't believe it!" The child giggled at his antics, and Mrs. Hughes laughed, as well. "You think it's funny?" he cried in mock indignation. "See for yourself!" And he raised the edge of the blanket slowly, ever so slightly … and then quickly pulled it back down again. He did this several times in rapid succession, causing Miss Sybbie to squeal with glee. Soon, all three were laughing merrily, the two adults trying desperately to be as quiet as possible, the child not caring one whit about moderating the volume of her expressions of joy.

Soon, Miss Syybie's eyes and Mr. Carson's arms grew tired, and Mrs. Hughes took custody of the infant. She began to sing in hushed tones, and the babe in her arms succumbed to her fatigue at last. The housekeeper continued to sing while Miss Sybbie fell deeper into slumber. Mr. Carson stood by until Mrs. Hughes concluded her little serenade.

"I think that should do it. I doubt she'll wake again," Mrs. Hughes whispered.

"What was that song you sang?" he wanted to know.

"Oh. It's called 'The Christ-Child's Lullaby*,'" she told him, then added, "It's Scottish."

"I gathered as much when I couldn't understand the words," he teased with a small smile before continuing more seriously. "It's lovely."

"It is, yes. And very effective, too, judging by this one's response. Well, I should probably take this little lass back to the nursery now."

"Mrs. Hughes … if you'll permit me … if it's not too forward … " He paused for a moment. "You would have made a wonderful mother … had you … erm … had you chosen a different path."

She let out a little huff. "Mother? I'm an old woman, Mr. Carson. I'd have been a _grand_mother by now."

"Do you … regret it? Not marrying and not having children, I mean."

"No," she said pensively but with certainty. "I don't. It wasn't meant to be. Had I chosen a different path, I wouldn't be here now. And I'm quite content with my present circumstances." And she demonstrated her contentment with a serene, satisfied smile.

"I'm very glad to hear it," he returned quietly.

She nodded. "Well, then. I'd best take her up now." With Miss Sybbie still nestled snugly against her shoulder, Mrs. Hughes turned and began to walk away, but after the first step, she stopped and looked back to Mr. Carson. "And for the record, _you_ would have made a marvelous _father_ … " Here she paused, allowing him time to consider her words. Then she added, very deliberately, "But I do believe you were _meant_ to be a _butler_. I hope _you_ don't regret _that_."

He stepped closer and regarded her earnestly. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. That means a great deal to me. It's very kind of you to say. And no, I don't regret it. Not for a minute. In fact, I'm very grateful that my path has led me here to Downton. I can't imagine myself anywhere else."

"That makes two of us, Mr. Carson. It's good to know we're both _exactly_ where we belong."

**A/N *"The Christ-Child's Lullaby" or "Our Saviour's Lullaby" is a real Scottish lullaby. According to the various sources I consulted, it was written by Father Ranald Rankin in 1855 for the children of his parish in Fort William. It became popular in Scotland in the latter half of the nineteenth century. Later, in the early twentieth century, it gained popularity among English speakers when Marjory Kennedy-Fraser translated it from the original Gaelic into English. The song has **_**twenty-nine**_** verses! I imagine **_**that**_** would put **_**anyone**_** to sleep! And no, I don't imagine Mrs. Hughes sang **_**all**_** of the verses to Miss Sybbie (even if she did remember them all) – probably only three or four.**

**I can easily believe that Mr. Carson would insist on carrying on the tradition of Father Christmas's visit, even though it would make no difference to Baby Miss Sybbie. Mrs. Hughes would definitely be in agreement with the **_**spirit**_** of the tradition, but she'd approach it more pragmatically. Mr. Carson, on the other hand, would abide by "the **_**letter**_** of the law," so to speak (as we saw in S2, evidenced by his attitude about slipping standards during the war).**

**I truly don't believe that either Mr. Carson or Hughes laments not taking a different path in life. I think they're both content with the way things have played out, and they're grateful to be right where they are. They're perfectly satisfied with what **_**is**_**, and they're wise enough not to trouble themselves over what **_**might have been**_**. They might yearn for a little more from their relationship, but we all know that that's coming soon! They'll get there in the end, and that's all that matters.**

**If you would be so kind, please leave a review. Thanks.**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N I'm sorry I haven't done a better job of keeping up with these prompts. I might still get to one more before Christmas: I have an idea for Jingle Bells.**

**Thank you, as always for your continuing support.**

**This chapter picks up right after canon events of the S5 CS, on Christmas morning.**

I - Ice

_December 25, 1924_

Mr. Carson woke happier than he'd ever been. Mrs. Hughes had said yes. Last night, she'd agreed to marry him and had thereby made him the happiest man in the world. Everything had been so busy that they hadn't been able to spend much time alone together, but after the festivities and the subsequent cleaning up and clearing away, they'd managed to steal just a few moments in her sitting room to say good night with shy smiles and clasped hands. He eagerly looked forward to seeing her this morning.

As he lay in bed for a few moments, a delightful thought occurred to him: today, he would be able to escort his intended to church and back. He and Mrs. Hughes usually walked to services together, often joined by Mrs. Patmore. And he sometimes offered an arm to one woman or the other when it was icy; when it was wet and sloppy, he held their hands to help them through muddy patches or across puddles. (And he made sure his lads did the same for the younger women.) But today, circumstances were different. Today, he wouldn't need any pretense to offer his arm to Mrs. Hughes or to hold her hand. He'd always been concerned for her welfare, but now her well-being was his _responsibility_, his _duty_ – and he embraced this new charge with much pride.

With such a pleasing notion occupying his mind, Mr. Carson rose and readied himself for the day with an added spring in his step, taking a little extra care to be sure he looked his best. He went downstairs and busied himself in his pantry until he heard familiar footsteps in the corridor. When he looked up to see his betrothed standing at his open door, smiling at him, he matched her smile enthusiastically.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hughes, and Happy Christmas!" he offered cheerfully, standing to greet her and maneuvering out from behind his desk.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson. And to you, as well," she returned, entering and closing his door behind her. Mrs. Hughes paused for a moment, then added shyly, "If I may say so, it's a _very_ good morning and a _very_ happy Christmas."

His heart soared, and he could hardly respond. Her words showed that she was as happy as he. "I've never known a better one," he managed quietly, still overcome by the fact that they were actually engaged to be married.

After they stood grinning soppily at one another for a few more seconds, Mr. Carson spoke again. "Mrs. Hughes, will you allow me escort you to services this morning?"

Her smile widened. "I'd like that very much."

"Very good. Right, then. I'll come to collect you when it's time to leave," he told her, his face expressing his great joy.

"I'll be waiting. But I'd better be getting on now. I'll see you shortly." She squeezed his hand and left him to his pleasant musings.

At the appointed time, Mr. Carson presented himself in Mrs. Hughes's sitting room. He'd already put on his coat, and he held his hat in his hand. She had her handbag ready and was adjusting her scarf. He set his hat down, picked up her coat, and held it for her while she slid her arms into the sleeves. Then he adjusted it on her shoulders, letting his hands rest there lightly and briefly. He reflected that he'd held the housekeeper's coat for her many times, but this was the first time he'd ever assisted his _fiancée _in donning the garment. The thought made his heart swell. He retrieved his hat and held out his arm, gesturing for Mrs. Hughes to precede him out the door.

They gathered in the servants' hall with the others, and once everyone was present, they set out for the church. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes let everyone else file out the back door ahead of them, and by the time the couple made it out into the courtyard, most of the others had scurried off excitedly and were already a fair distance ahead.

Mr. Carson closed and locked the door and stowed the key in his pocket, and then he turned to Mrs. Hughes. Though there was no ice or mud in sight, he puffed out his chest and offered her his arm.

She smiled up at him. "Thank you, Mr. Carson. I think I _will_ hold your arm. It'll make me feel a bit steadier," she said.

He smiled, too, when he recognized her words. "You can always hold my arm if you need to feel steady."

"I don't know how, but you managed to make that sound a little _risqué_." She laughed as she spoke, and as always, her laughter warmed his heart.

"And if I did ... We're getting _married_, Mrs. Hughes, you and I. We can afford to live a little," he proclaimed boldly. They set off, and after two steps, he leaned down and whispered in her ear, "As a matter of fact, I hope to live _a lot_."

And so it was that Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson walked to Christmas morning services together – together as always … yet _together_ as never before.

**A/N Please review if you can spare a few moments at this busy time of year.**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N Thank you so much for all of your kind words for the previous chapter. This chapter also takes place on Christmas Day, 1924 – or Christmas **_**Night**_**, really. I guess it could be follow-up to the previous chapter, in a way, but it works on its own, too.**

J- Jingle Bells

_December 25, 1924_

Everyone else at the Abbey – family and servants alike – had gone to bed after an eventful, exhausting day; but the butler and housekeeper, newly betrothed and eager for a few precious moments alone, had waited downstairs until everyone else was tucked away.

"They've all gone up," Mrs. Hughes announced when she came to Mr. Carson's pantry door. "I've just said good night to Mrs. Patmore."

Mr. Carson looked up from the sherry he was pouring at his desk. "Finally! Some well-deserved peace and quiet. Shall we?" He held two filled glasses and motioned towards the two chairs that the couple normally occupied during their tête-à-têtes.

Mr. Carson placed the sherry glasses on the small table between the two chairs, and they settled into their seats. Once they were situated, Mrs. Hughes held out a small box that she'd brought with her.

"This is for you, Mr. Carson. Happy Christmas," she said.

"Oh! Wait a moment. I've got something for you, too." And he started to rise.

But Mrs. Hughes stopped him. "It's all right. There's no hurry. You can get it in a moment. Why don't you open this first?"

"All right, then."

Mr. Carson sat back down and accepted the box she offered him. He unwrapped it and opened it to discover a handsome leather key fob. It wasn't a terribly expensive item, but it was of good quality and attractive-looking. Smiling as he examined it, he said, "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. It's a very fine piece."

"I thought you might need it for the keys to your new house. Of course, I bought it before I … before you … before we came to our understanding." She cast her eyes down and smiled bashfully.

"Indeed," he breathed softly. "I like it very much." He paused a moment before adding, "Especially now that it will hold a key to _our_ new house." At that thought, they both smiled.

He set his gift aside on the table and went to his desk to retrieve two packages. Reclaiming his seat, he handed the smaller parcel to Mrs. Hughes.

She took it from him, unwrapped the box, and opened the lid, revealing a key.

"It's one of the keys to our house," Mr. Carson informed her. "I didn't buy you a key fob or anything to hold it, but I thought you might keep it on your chatelaine."

Tears pooled in Mrs. Hughes's eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Carson. I will. I'll keep it with me always - to remind myself that this isn't just a dream."

"It _is_ a dream, Mrs. Hughes, but it isn't _just_ a dream anymore. 'Our little dream' has come true.'"

They were both silent for a time before Mr. Carson held out the second box to her. Placing the key gently on the table, she took the next package from him. When she opened it, she found a small brass hand bell.

Wrinkling her brow in confusion, she said, "Thank you, Mr. Carson, but I'm not sure I understand. What am I to do with this? This looks like something the Dowager would use to summon Miss Denker or Mr. Spratt. But I'm hardly a lady! I have no servants to summon."

"Ah, but you're wrong, Mrs. Hughes. You _are_ a lady. You're _my_ lady. And you can use that bell to call upon your butler," he explained seriously. "You see, for nearly my entire life, I've been answering to bells, always at someone else's behest, acquiescing to the family's needs and fancies. But that's changed now. Now, I'm subject to _your_ requests and directives. Of course, as long as I'm still working here, I'll still have to attend to the family, but _you_ come _first_. I'll answer _that_ bell before all the others."

Mrs. Hughes was caught between tears and laughter and finally succumbed to both. "I'll not be 'summoning' you to pour my tea, Mr. Carson, but I do appreciate the meaning behind the gift. Very much. Thank you." And she reached out to hold his hand.

They chatted for a few more minutes, finished their sherry, and then decided it was time to turn in for the night.

"Let me just take my gifts and go to close up my sitting room, and then I'll come back to help you with the glasses," said Mrs. Hughes.

Mr. Carson waved her off. "There's no need. It'll only take a moment. I'll come and get you when I'm done, and we can walk up together."

She went to her sitting room, and he took the sherry glasses to the kitchen. He had just finished washing and drying them when a faint tinkling came from the housekeeper's sitting room. Obeying the summons, he presented himself at her door.

"Yes, my lady? I am at your service. Do you need something from me?" he inquired, playing along.

"Only this," she answered. She approached him, rested her hand on his shoulder, lifted herself on her toes, and tenderly kissed his cheek. When she lowered herself, they were both a little breathless.

"Well!" he said, releasing a sigh. "That particular act is outside the scope of my usual duties … but I think I can manage – on occasion." And he bent his head to place a soft, lingering kiss on her cheek.

"More than 'manage,' I'd say. That will do very nicely, thank you," she told him.

They stood gazing fondly at one another for a moment and then walked up the stairs, holding hands. When they had to part ways, Mr. Carson drew Mrs. Hughes's hand to his mouth and kissed it reverently.

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes," he said. "And Happy Christmas."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," she returned. "It's been both."

"It certainly has," he agreed.

She retired to her bedroom, and he withdrew to his; and soon, a blissful slumber and sweet dreams of their shared future overtook them both.

**A/N Thank you for reading. Please leave a review if you can spare the time. I haven't yet been able to respond to reviews from the previous chapter, but I promise I'll do that as soon as I can.**

**I know I've made it less than half way through the list of prompts. All I can say is … maybe I can try again next year?**

**To those of you who celebrate the holiday: I wish you and yours the most blessed, joyous Christmas.**

**To those of you who don't: I wish you many blessings and much joy.**

**And lots of love to all!**


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